I have been adopting strange eating habits of late. I'm eating my third bowl (it's a small bowl) of cereal at 2:30pm in the afternoon. So for today, I had a pao, a banana and a slice of honeydew in school. Sounds rather like a family huh? "This is Mr. Pao, Miss Banana and Mrs. Honeydew. They reside in Melissa's stomach." Okay, sorry. My brain feels a bit odd today.

Reading Murakami suddenly gave me this realisation that it is all too easy to fall into depression. All too easy to fall into one mundane task after another, walk the same path every day with no variation, entering into a life of monotone. And the worst thing is, you yourself wouldn't realise your life has become a meaningless parade. You'd just go on living, doing the things you always do, and never realise that you've become a robot, a slave to work, a slave to society, a slave to yourself.

Sometimes I wonder, who are the people who came up with languages, the idea of schools, movies, art, literature, music? And I cannot help but admire and respect them. Where did they get their ideas to write books and plays from, the pioneers of literature? When people write now, they all tend to base their writings and thoughts on previous works they've read, either consciously or subconsciously. Where then, did the very first people who picked up a pen to write, get their ideas from?










Today, it suddenly struck me as I looked at you, why I was being so foolish.
As quickly as it came... it passed on just as fleetingly.



I'm finally tired, I finally feel like giving up everything I have.

No, I don't mean to say I want to kill myself.